


all these empty things we cannot carry

by AutumnsAwakening



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Nightwing (Comics)
Genre: A different take on Ric Grayson's amnesia, Multi, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, except not really, jaydick if you squint, nightwing #50 spoilers, somewhat canon compliant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-29
Updated: 2019-01-29
Packaged: 2019-10-18 14:14:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17582438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AutumnsAwakening/pseuds/AutumnsAwakening
Summary: It ends for Dick when he's shot in the head.It's not that simple for the rest of the family.





	all these empty things we cannot carry

**Author's Note:**

> Hope I'm not too late to ride on this wtf Ric Grayson train!
> 
> This AU explores the possibility of Dick never being able to recover his memories after his injury and therefore, Bruce making the decision to keep him in the dark of his true vigilante identity (and all those affiliated with it) so this obviously does NOT follow what's in the current comics (and I suppose I took some liberties regarding the dynamics of the family in this as well).
> 
> This was also going to follow Jason and be heavier on the Jaydick but I think Tim historically has better relations with everyone and, by default, is a bit more sympathetic so it made more sense to write this as Tim-centric with a little bit of Jaydick (if you squint) on the side. Tbh I like writing other outside characters' perceptions and speculations on pairings/couples so this was a bit of a treat for me.
> 
> Lastly, I hope you enjoy!

Dick has been asleep for a while now, much longer than Tim can remember he's ever seen his predecessor sleep before.

He's not surprised — or the least bit alarmed, honestly — as he understands the logistics of head trauma and its rectifying surgery but it still feels so very wrong, still makes him so unsettlingly uncomfortable, to wait and wait for his brother to _just wake up_.

While Dick remains unconscious, Bruce does not rest at all.

He balances his time out of the Batcave with furiously hunting down whoever was responsible for his oldest son's injury and ensuring Dick's rent is being paid for, along with purchasing him a car, setting a job up for him; among other things to be ready for him whenever he wakes.

Tim thinks this is promising, he really does, but cannot ignore the concern that lingers in the crevices of his bones at the sight of his overworked superior.

He's all stilted logic, pragmatic to a fault, and he knows something is _off_. Something is wrong. He can't quite figure out what it is, as it's only been a couple of days since Bruce has become fully consumed with all these various duties and errands, but the daunting feeling looms over him and sinks so deeply into his skin he can't shake the feeling off so he calls in the only reinforcements he can think of:

Jason and Damian.

* * *

* * *

One night, all three boys manage to end or delay their prior engagements to meet in the cave and Tim sucks in his pride—keeping his mouth shut when Damian complains and insults him and Jason joins in to mouth something off to him too—knowing with fierce certainty that _this is something Dick would do_ without any hesitation.

"Father," Damian eventually prods forth, his arms crossed and his voice tight. "Why are you making all of these arrangements for Grayson? The further you immerse him in these multiple engagements, the more difficult it will be for him to disengage himself from them without suspicion when he returns."

There is a pause and it's like the air stills around them, thickening under the stirring realization that makes something lodge itself into the base of Tim's throat. Like the current Robin he looks immediately to Bruce searching, assessing; trying to decipher a fragment of an answer — a justification that does not make Tim feel like there is a hole somewhere in him that's bleeding everything out.

But it's much, much too late. The implication burns around them, suffocating, and just when Tim thinks he's going to open his mouth and say something with reason, there is a sudden crash next to him.

"So that's _it_?" Jason sneers, his boot pressing down on one of the upturned expensive chair's legs before it's crushed under his weight. He huffs out a laugh that's all acidity, shaking his head. "Your favorite boy toy has a little scratch in it and you're just gonna throw him away?"

Instead of directly responding to the eldest boy's accusations, Bruce simply responds, "you all need to take a step back and evaluate the situation in it's entirety. While Dick remains out of commission, we must do what is necessary—"

"I don't care what the fuck is _necessary_ right now." Jason seethes, cutting Bruce's words across with his. "Just admit it — Just fucking tell us that Dick isn't coming back when he wakes up, that he's not… That you don't _want_ him back either, you selfish fuck!"

"Jason!" Tim simultaneously scolds as Damian draws his sword, the blade of it suddenly at Jason's throat.

"Take that _back_ , Todd," the young boy demands with undiluted rage and Jason appears amused at his misplaced anger.

"Take back what?" he asks with an awful smile. He pushes the sword away; unflinching as the edge presses into the palm of his hand, drawing blood. "That Dick isn't coming back or that your old man doesn't even want him to?"

"That's enough," Bruce orders as he places a firm hand on Damian's shoulder and, like a trained dog, the boy shakily lowers his sword until its tip meets the ground. "We can table this discussion for another day."

"Fuck that and fuck you," Jason snarls. "We're not tabling this like it's some fucking case — we're going to talk about this _now_ , like the goddamn adults we all are. And don't try that Damian-and-Tim-Are-Kids bullshit with me. They fight and spill blood for you. We've died and gone missing _because_ of you, you stupid fuck. If you think holding the truth from us is 'necessary' then you don't respect everything we've done for you."

This time, Tim and Damian do not come to their superior's aid. The quiet hum of the room's large monitors fill the empty space between them where the residual of Jason's damaging words cannot, and a jarring feeling begins to ache in the hollow of Tim's chest.

For a man who's been trained to steady his heart rate at the drop of a pin and hold his breath for 23 minutes and 28 seconds, Jason sounds a bit breathless, his voice harsh and raw sounding, when he demands next—

"Now tell us: Is Dick coming back? Will he ever be Nightwing again?"

The question is clear and the answer should be easy. But the moment stretches further than it should, and then Bruce's jaw locks and a small crack somewhere in this world opens up and becomes an ugly pit of loss.

Jason smirks and there is a strange fluctuation in his tone when he says, "burn in hell, Bruce."

* * *

* * *

A small portion of the Batcave is in ruins.

Chairs, expensive equipment, and tables are broken and ruined beyond repair; file cases are scattered about — all physical reminders of Jason's violent departure.

Tim looks to Bruce for a moment and his mentor gives him a nod before reaching for Damian once again only for the boy to shrug off his hand. The young Wayne does not move further away; however, and Tim decides to leave the father and his son alone in the quietness of the cave.

* * *

* * *

Tim expects a few more things to be damaged when he reaches upstairs.

He expects some furniture and upholstery to be overturned and out of place, maybe a few picture frames shattered, and exquisite statues and sculptures busted and bent in.

What he doesn't expect is for Jason to only make it out the main entrance of the Manor, now sitting on the top step of the small staircase that descends toward the driveway. Alfred is almost finished tending to Jason's bleeding hand — something the older man must've forced upon the tall boy the minute he appeared to have collapsed outside — and when the butler turns to see Tim gazing at the two, he gives Jason a quick squeeze on the arm and heads back into the large estate.

Tim does not say anything when he approaches the older boy, simply standing next to Jason with slight precaution (even though he knows he doesn't have anything to fear. Not right now. Not with Jason.).

There's dried blood smeared across one side of Jason's face, the darkest area around his upper cheek and eye, that his successor pretends not to notice. But there is nothing to hide now; there is nothing they can do to deny the heavy weight of the situation.

When Tim rests a knowing hand on Jason's shoulder, the older boy just lets out a shaky breath and it sounds like a hollow laugh, painful and aching.

Tim expects a few more things to be damaged when he reaches upstairs. Instead everything is perfectly in place besides the boy sitting next to him — consequently, the only broken thing he finds.

* * *

* * *

The Wayne household routine is never consistent, not with injuries, intergalactic responsibilities, and perpetual cases pulling its inhabitants in multiple directions.

This week is no different. Except that it is.

Because Damian does not come home very often, not even to see his pets, and Tim traces too many busted up, barely conscious criminals with broken hands and crushed in ribcages back to Batman.

He thinks he should confront Bruce soon but when he's given the chance one night he can't seem to find his voice, with his unwavering gaze stuck on his superior who's dressing his minor wounds down in the confinements of the Batcave. Instead, with his chest heaving heavy like Jason's did days before, Bruce looks to Tim and says in a steady voice, "is there something you want to discuss with me, Tim?"

And yes, there is. There's that unconscious drug lord the police found a couple of nights ago who's face looked like it was dragged across glass and the reported warehouse who had a half of dozen knocked out drug traffickers piled up on one another, crushing the bottom men, and—

Tim stops himself, his mouth suddenly dry from inquiries he cannot bring himself to ask. Instead, his eyes shift to one of the monitors and a flash of purple cuts across the screen.

"Batgirl," he eventually mutters before looking back to Bruce, "and Signal. Do they…?"

Bruce nods.

" _Everything_?" Tim croaks out next despite himself.

Another confirmation shake of the head and he feels his throat begin to burn.

"Why didn't you tell us, Bruce?" he asks in quiet dismay. There is no use masking how hurt and betrayed he feels now. Not when the rest of his family seems in ruins as well. "Why didn't you tell us Dick might not ever remember us? Might never be Nightwing again?"

"I wanted to be certain," the older man explains, his voice hollow and so far away. And Tim thinks that's it, that's the end to all of this but _then_ —"And perhaps, maybe, this is for the best."

Tim feels himself make an ugly expression at that. " _No_ ," he argues fiercely, "this isn't for the best. Dick loved being Nightwing; loved working with you. He—"

"He almost died because of me," Bruce interjects calmly. "As have you, Jason, Damian, Barbara, and Duke."

Something in Tim breaks, like a part of him cracks away, at Bruce's words and their heavy implications. "Bruce," he swallows thickly, "we've all made a conscious choice to work with you and no one regrets it. No one ever will. Please don't assume that this is better for him; I mean, there's gotta be something we can—"

Once again his mentor intervenes and Tim doesn't find himself become irritated like usual. Instead, he almost finds relief in the small pauses and breaks from speaking because the more he talks about this, the more this is _real_ and his chest burns, burns, burns from it.

"This is not like dying, Tim," Bruce says. "And this injury is more complicated than spinal damage. There are other avenues I've researched but the risks are far greater than the reward. I am…" He pauses, his eyes fixated on his bandaged arm, and Tim in turn can't seem to take his steady gaze off his superior, his heart twisting painfully when Bruce continues, "Please know I'm trying the best I can right now to fix everything. But please understand that some thing's cannot be repaired. I know I've should've told you earlier and I'm so sorry, Tim. For many, many things."

Tim doesn't remember moving forward, does not know the exact moment when he wraps his arms around Bruce; doesn't even understand what he's doing until he presses his chin into the crook of the older man's shoulder. His voice is wet but vulnerably earnest when he says, "it's okay, Bruce, _it's okay_."

Bruce covers his face with a hand and allows himself to grieve for his oldest son.

* * *

* * *

When Dick finally wakes one day, no one is allowed to see him — not even catch a glimpse of him when he's fully released from the hospital.

Damian stops coming home completely after that and Tim is too tired and occupied with his own missions to search for him.

When the young Wayne finally shows up a week and a half later with, _of course_ , an injured animal (which is most likely the reason Damian even bothered to come home in the first place), Tim's not surprised.

Just like he's not surprised when Duke suddenly becomes heavily involved with affairs outside of Gotham, or when Jason stops answering all communication from him completely, or when Babs buys an apartment over in Blüdhaven.

He almost pays no heed to Damian until he catches sight of the hurt animal — a common raven with an injured wing.

Damian simply names it 'Bird' and tends to it on a daily basis, always making the effort to stop in and check on its status with Alfred. It feels like a little bit of normalcy weaves its way back into the Wayne household but in the end, as things always are for their family, it is never that simple.

Tim catches Alfred looking out a slightly opened window with a hand resting over his chest one day. He approaches the older man with caution in attempt to not spoil whatever private moment he is walking into and follows Alfred's stare.

He sees Damian outside in the courtyard with the raven in his hands. It appears as if the young Wayne is attempting to coach the bird in his hands to take flight only for the animal to latch onto Damian in refusal. The boy, in turn, doesn't seem like his usual brash and impatient self, but instead sighs in quiet resignation and leans forward to talk to the raven.

"Gray," he says and Tim frowns, unaware Damian had addressed the animal as anything other than 'Bird'. "I appreciate your efforts this afternoon. We will practice again in the morning and do not be discouraged. We will continue to try until you can fly again."

As he moves forward, the light catches the two and Tim swears the raven's black, sleek feathers reflect a blue hue. But the moment is fleeting and ends as quickly as it appears, leaving him to wonder if it even happened in the first place.

Alfred places a hand on his arm and squeezes it much like he had with Jason a week ago.

Tim swallows thickly and decides to assist Alfred with preparing lunch, making to sure to return the squeeze when he leaves for his first patrol of the night.

* * *

* * *

"At least he didn't pass away," Steph gently tells Tim, her small hand folded in his, and he smiles weakly at the thought.

Upon her words, he thinks of Dick's funeral years ago and the anger that boiled under his skin upon hearing of his predecessor's faux death, just dropping back into the the younger boy's life so casually; like he didn't pull the rug from under his family's feet and leave them stumbling numbly about for months.

It had been hard back then to accept Dick died, and even harder to accept he was alive and lied to everyone instead.

But _this_. This is different. So unfair and cruelly different.

He knows it shouldn't be and tries over and over again to convince himself otherwise. But there are too many fragments of Dick everywhere, his numerous uniforms encased in glass within the Batcave, photos of him at various ages framed about the Manor, his name coloring the lips of any hero Tim comes in contact with, and the painful truth that Dick is still out there with no recollection or realization of the impact he left behind.

Stephanie is right. Dick didn't die.

Instead, he's alive. And he'll never ruffle Damian's hair again, or hug Barbara, or argue with Bruce, or train with Duke, or write Alfred letters when he's undercover and across states, or lean on Jason's broad shoulders, or drag Tim to obscure pop up restaurants downtown, or—

Stephanie suddenly squeezes his hand and he wonders if she can feel it shake within her grasp. If she does, she doesn't say anything.

"It's quiet tonight," she observes and Tim nods his head, throat tight.

Standing few feet ahead Cass does not offer any words, eyes staring forward, searching the illuminated skyline of Blüdhaven like she's waiting to see something that she knows deep down will never come.

* * *

* * *

Time has always been messy and chaotic to Tim. Days and nights are separated by lack of light, weeks are distinguished by whichever mission or case he's on, and years are split by birthday wishes he receives by his friends and family — tangible, visible things that help him feel a little more anchored and grounded to the present time when it moves at as such a blotchy, fast rate.

For now, it's calculated by the less visibility of the scar that altered the entirety of Dick Grayson's life.

It's almost unnoticeable now covered by a couple of inches of thick, dark hair and Tim feels slightly startled at its length.

But not as startled at how rough and mean Dick is when he punches a guy who cornered him in an alleyway. Tim hears the distinct crunch of bones breaking (more specifically, an arm snapping in a direction it shouldn't) and then a desperate scream and he feels something hot coil in his stomach when Dick's laugh follows shortly after.

"The guy technically had it coming," he comments but frowns when he know that's just an excuse.

Barbara narrows her eyes at him for a moment before turning back to look at Dick feet below them from the rooftop they're peering over.

When she doesn't verbally respond, he continues, "it's still him, Babs. The trauma—It just… Bruce said—"

"I don't _care_ what anyone says," she snaps abruptly, cutting him off. "That's not _him_. Everything is different, Tim. Everything. The way he walks, the way he fights; the—the way he talks."

"Barbara…" Tim starts quietly, the distance between them shrinking when he reaches for her.

She recoils from his touch and gives him a harsh look. "Tim, _don't_."

And he doesn't.

Because she's a grown woman and he doesn't need to advise her to listen to Bruce who admonishes all of them to not interact with Dick while he maneuvers about his life now as Ric Grayson. She's smart enough to know not to intervene in Ric's every day routine, only to bump into him once or twice every month and a half while grabbing coffee at one of the stores he frequents or have one beer at the bars he lingers at. It's never a guarantee he'll be there either; always a flip of a coin if she'll manage to catch a glimpse of him and see his hair grow longer and hear him talk all wrong.

Barbara suddenly leans on Tim, perhaps more at ease that he respects her wishes and stops talking. Quietly, they watch Ric descend down the street until distance and darkness begins to swallow his retreating form whole.

(' _Do not follow him,' Bruce advises the group, 'Do not speak to him or check in with him. He has no recollection of any of you and I myself am a distant memory at this point. Your interference will only hinder his ability to move on and recover. Do you understand_?'.)

Ric is too far away to see now, completely disappearing into the horizon, and once again seems to go where others cannot follow. No matter how much they want to.

* * *

* * *

Nobody tells you that love is a selfish thing. They don't tell you that sometimes it becomes so heavy and all-consuming, it pours and pours itself into you until, one day, it devours you completely.

And all the other things that come with it — the ugly fragments and components of love that no one ever likes to talk about, like jealousy and grief, become a weighted part of you too.

* * *

* * *

Tim knows what the right thing is to do.

He is, after all, all stilted logic and pragmatic to a fault but life isn't ever as clean and simple as everyone makes it out to be. There are unseemly parts of him, flaws that he cannot ignore, and he knows that they consume him from time to time and battle with his rationality and, sometimes, they _win_.

"Fuck," Jason suddenly curses under his breath, leaning back uncomfortably into his chair, and Tim presses the hot coffee cup in his hands closer to his mouth.

It takes everything in him to not search frantically around the coffee shop, turning and twisting his head around so he can sweep the area faster, but it's a small store and it doesn't take him long to follow Jason's shifty stare toward him. To Ric Grayson.

He's waiting in line looking a little skinnier than before, taping his foot impatiently, and Babs is right—he _does_ walk a bit differently.

Jason inhales a sharp breath when Ric turns around and something in Tim's chest stirs. It's definitely Dick but at the same time it's _not_.

His smile looks genuine but it's just a bit off, just a little too crooked, to be deemed identical to Dick's. His hair is longer now too and Tim fleetingly wonders how much time has truly passed since his family broke apart.

His familiar blue eyes almost sweep past them but falter last minute, lingering on Jason's face just a bit longer than Tim's, before his name is called out and he grabs his coffee cup that has _Ric_ written neatly over it. He gives the two a friendly nod like maybe he's seen them before somewhere else, maybe shared a beer with them late one night at some bar a few streets down, or bumped into them waiting in line at a restaurant nearby, before sauntering out of the store without another thought.

* * *

* * *

It ends for Dick when he's shot in the head—

(' _Do not follow him. Do not speak to him or check in with him_ … _Do you understand_?')

Tim tries to steady his quickened pulse, feeling a strange pressure pushing in the back of his eyes, and he takes a sip of his coffee but he can't even concentrate on how it tastes. Next to him he can hear Jason's fingers scratching something and when he looks down, he finds the older boy fiddling with a pack of cigarettes half full with a slightly shaky hand.

—It's not that simple for the rest of the family.

**Author's Note:**

> Additional note: I cannot figure out how I truly feel about Rebirth and the storylines its created for all the kids yet, but I hope this didn't completely disregard some of the current storylines. Anyway, thanks for sticking with this till the end.


End file.
